


House of Blood

by Life_giver



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-15
Updated: 2020-04-15
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:07:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23668093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Life_giver/pseuds/Life_giver
Summary: “I love you in a way that is unnatural.”“But you love me.”“Aye.”He would never forget that whispered utterance or the pleading in Maedhros’ gaze. It was something Fingon had held onto for centuries, long after they had ceased to walk the same path, long after the wounds of their houses had stained the affection they had once nursed in the dark confines of Maedhros’ bed.
Relationships: Fingon | Findekáno/Maedhros | Maitimo
Comments: 6
Kudos: 59





	House of Blood

I love you as

certain dark things

are to be loved.

in secret,

between the shadow

and the soul.

-Neruda

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


The screaming wasn’t the end of the nightmare but the beginning. The sound brought the hounds to baying and that in turn brought the servants rushing down the corridors, but Fingon stopped them and sent them back to bed. He stood outside of his own door, listening to the horrid noise travel down the hallways, pretending they were only phantom imprints of a time he would rather forget. 

Maedhros had brought the dead back to life in this place but could he lay the mallet of blame upon his cousin? He pulled on a night robe slowly, dreading the task. In the beginning he had rushed down the hallways, hair and robes flying, his heart leaping from his chest. He’d never heard such inhuman sounds come from a body. 

He went about his nightly ritual now with resignation. It was torture seeing the corpse now lying in his own bed. He’d given up his own chambers because they were the airiest, and his cousin needed the clean air after the stench of Thangorodrim.

He stood for a moment outside of the door, hand pressed to the warm wood, listening to the screams die into faint and muffled sobbing. He thought about turning and slipping back into the warmth of his bed. Maitimo had always been prideful and for a moment, Fingon saw him as he had been when they were children, parading himself around the courtyard on horseback, making Fingon walk behind him, a crown of leaves in his hair, pretending to be a king. If only he had known then the weight of a crown. 

Fingon’s hounds had quieted and the silence left a veil of discomfort around him now. The unease pushed his hand and he was inside the room before he could convince himself to ignore his duty. The body beneath the sheets was skeletal, the hair that hung over the side of the bed, limp. The fiery red Fingon remembered was now dulled and sheared to the chin. Maedhros had his face buried in his arms but the sobs had stopped the moment Fingon had opened the door. 

He anticipated it, but it still stung,

“Leave,” Maedhros mumbled, turning from the door and burying himself deeper into the sheets.

Fingon ignored the command and drifted to the open window and sat down in the window seat, looking down to the courtyard where ghosts ran yelling and laughing with wooden swords. It was such torture to comfort Maedhros after the nightmares. In his mind, Maitimo was still the one he had once looked up to, the one he had trailed after for years, wanting approval, yearning for any ounce of attention. 

Maitimo, that was what he had called his cousin once upon a time. 

“What can I do for you, Maedhros?” Fingon asked softly, fingers picking at the sleeve of his robe. His heart hammered in his chest. He wanted so much to reach out to him. Their reunion had been wrought with grief and confusion. 

“It pains you to even look upon me.” 

The comment did make him look, drew Fingon’s eyes slowly to the bed. Maedhros was looking at him, his sheared copper hair wild and unbrushed. He would let no one touch his hair. Fingon imagined it had been an act of defilement, the shearing. His cousin had always been known for the fire in his hair, and had worn his long braids with pride. 

Fingon’s fingers curled into his palm, away from a warmth he wasn’t sure he would ever feel again. He had not been able to lay a hand on Maedhros since he’d carried him dying in his arms into a stunned courtyard. 

_“He is my blood,” He’d said to the disapproval in his father’s face._

It seemed Maedhros wore a mask now, one twisted with grief and anger. Fingon hardly recognized the corpse Gorthaur had left behind. In his memories, his cousin had been bright-faced and beautiful, even in his madness. In his anger, Maedhros burned with an inner fire, a blaze that writhed and danced wherever he went. And in his gentlest moments, the ones that had been hidden in dark staircases and locked rooms, the moments meant only for Fingon, the light in Maedhros burned ever brighter.

Fingon swallowed thickly and looked away, gaze flickering down to his lap and he heard the harsh, resounding laughter. Maedhros was right, it was hard to face the mark that had been left on his cousin. The beast had made certain to twist and deform Maedhros in ways that went more than skin deep. 

Maedhros was not only defeated, he was being eaten alive with fury and hate. 

  
  


The house was full of ringing laughter, bounding off the walls, ricocheting through the courtyards. Maedhros’ brothers were full of energy, full of his father’s fierce personality. There was never a moment of silence, always someone throwing food across the table, slinging swords, hiding under beds and whispering throughout the night until a pillow was thrown to quiet restlessness. The chaotic commotion was never-ending. 

And that was precisely why Maedhros was here, his fingers full of silk. He much prefered the steady calm of his cousin. He wound a ribbon of gold through the long strands of Fingon’s dark hair. He was skilled at braiding. Bearing the eldest age of his siblings meant he took the role of a second parent. He’d become adept at wiping tears, cleaning scraped knees, hauling children out of bed, braiding hair whilst trying to keep the squirming at bay with his knees. 

But there was no squirming here. Fingon had a proud, straight back. He kept himself held like a little king. Though no longer very little, he was edging on adulthood as was Maedhros. There was still a childish fullness to his cheeks, and he was still slight of build, but he could bear a sword as well as Maedhros could. They’d tilted swords in the yard many times, and he’d had to work for every victory against his headstrong cousin. 

“Why do you wear this gold ribbon in your hair?” Maedhros asked, slipping the ribbon against the dark strands carefully. He worked the braids into the intricate patterns of someone well past their youth. Fingon favored a peculiar style he’d seen on no one else. 

Fingon had worn gold in his hair since as long as Maedhros could remember. He’d never seen his cousin as vain. He’d expect the ribbon from Caranthir or even Celegorm when he was in the mind for dancing instead of hunting, but Fingon was humble, always giving the best food at the table to others, graciously turning down any compliment given, even bowing his head and shirking victory when he won those rare times against Maedhros in the yard. Fingon was nothing like Maedhros’ brothers, nothing his father could claim as his blood, and perhaps that was why his heart was gentle towards his cousin. 

Fingon turned his head just a bit, pulling the gold plaits from Maedhros’ hands. Despite his humbleness, there was a proud element to his face that Maedhros always admired. He was beautiful, and perhaps he knew that. 

“It isn’t for vanity’s sake,” Fingon murmured, but offered no explanation and Maedhros said nothing more.

An unease had taken over his cousin’s face and Maedhros honored his silence. In one another, they would always find solace from the rising tension of their families. Darkness surrounded their kin, and they were but the heralds of a new age of that shadow. They both bore the curse of the eldest in their families, and they bore it with silent knowing. The braids in Maedhros’ hands were that of a warrior. 

Maedhros continued to plait Fingon’s hair. The strands were so black they seemed dipped in ink, and his hair smelled faintly of lavender. Maedhros’ brothers always smelled of horse and mud, a sickening combination if one smelled it for too long. His own clothes were forever permeated with the stench, but Fingon never seemed to mind it. Fingon leaned back against his perch on a stool and braced an elbow against Maedhros’ knee, the scent of lavender wafting all around them now. 

“Are you going to the lantern lighting tonight?” Fingon asked, turning his head again so that his hair was once more pulled from Maedhros’ grasp. Fingon’s dark eyes flitted over his face, open and curious. Fingon had eyes like storm clouds, deep gray and penetrating. 

Maedhros laughed. They never went to any event his father held, Fingon knew that. They always ended up in some field, racing on horseback, looking for anything more interesting to bide their time with. Neither was very keen on social events that they were expected to attend. But maybe it was a proper thing to ask now. 

They were older, no longer children. Maybe Fingon wanted to attend this year. After all, it was customary to pair off during the lantern lighting. The night was always full of laughter and secret whispering all throughout the halls. He’d never seen Fingon with a girl, and that made Maedhros smile as he tugged on one of his golden braids.

“Thinking of asking someone this year?” He asked, keeping his tone light. Fingon shifted uncomfortably between his legs, shrugging one elegant shoulder. 

“I’ve never even been kissed,” was the disgruntled answer. 

He moved without thinking, it was something he had only done in dreams. Maedhros leaned down, tugging gently on the braid in his hand to bring Fingon closer to him. The kiss to his cheek, too near the corner of his mouth, was quick, playful, but it still brought a fine flush to his cousin’s pale skin. 

“There. Now you’ve been kissed.” 

Laughter drifted between them, but the air around them had changed. Maedhros’ hands slowed, became gentler against Fingon’s hair and Fingon leaned closer to him, a smile settling in the corner of his mouth. 

  
  


“Maitimo,” Fingon whispered, tugging a little at the sheets. He found his cousin’s foot and tugged that as well until Maedhros kicked at him. 

“What is it?” Maedhros groaned. “If you’ve brought food again, you know I won’t take it.” 

“I’ve brought something better.” 

That got his cousin’s attention. When his bright red hair peeked out from beneath the mess of sheets, Fingon held the book out as a peace offering. He’d had a whole silver platter thrown at his head the last time he’d entered the room, and so it was with the utmost caution that he proceeded. 

Maedhros sat up, the sheets slipping and pooling at his thin waist. The bruising to his once unblemished body struck a cord of grief in Fingon, but he was careful not to let his emotions show on his face. He’d been reprimanded enough over the weeks Maedhros had been wasting away. 

Maedhros was intent on killing himself, and Fingon was intent on keeping him alive. It was a brutal tug of war game between them. They were both headstrong, but Fingon had always been more unyielding. In this particular duel, he would win at whatever cost. 

“Remember when we would sneak into the library?” 

Fingon settled himself down against the window seat, crooking a knee, the book caught between his fingers so that Maedhros could see the title. It was one of his favorites, a book of myths. Maedhros had always been in love with the stories of gods at war, of slaying balrogs, of bringing justice to the world. There had always been a sense of duty in his cousin and he played out those myths in his own life in a bloody mimic. He noticed Maedhros’ gaze slip to the book, interest peaked, but he remained silent. That faint flicker of interest was enough to propel Fingon forward. 

There had been no life in that amber gaze since Maedhros had arrived here. Fingon had fought hard for Maedhros’ life, and he was still committed to keeping the blood pumping through his veins. His love for his cousin ran deeper than perhaps even Maedhros knew, and that sort of loyalty was a tightly bound cord between them. 

He opened the book onto his lap and began to read softly. The smooth tenor of his voice had put Maedhros to sleep many a night when they were younger, copper head resting on Fingon’s shoulder in the dusty stacks of their grandfather’s library. There had only been one slip of decorum in the recesses of those old tomes, and Fingon had had to bribe the book keeper with his father’s gold to keep his mouth closed. They had once lived on the edge of a knife, it was a wonder no one had ever persecuted them for the nature of their affections. 

“Sneaking into the library. Is that all we did?” Maedhros wondered, and his sudden laughter startled Fingon and he looked up, voice faltering to a stop. 

“Your face is turning red, cousin.” 

It had been years since he had seen even a hint of a smile on Maedhros’ face and it brought back a flood of memories that overpowered the memory of stolen kisses. It sent Fingon’s heart to catapulting itself out of his chest and he nearly dropped the book in his excitement. 

“Red as a cherry,” 

“Red as your hair,” Fingon countered with a laugh that felt more easy than anything had this last decade of fighting. There was a sudden strong urge in Fingon to stroke his fingers through Maedhros’ hair as he had when they were younger but things between them had changed so much. They had stood on opposite sides of a battlefield for so long now, it was strange to be in the same room. There was an odd light in Maedhros’ eyes as he patted the space beside him on the bed. 

“Come here.” 

Fingon sat down and let their shoulders touch as he opened the book of myths again. He read until his candle burned down to the wick, and even as it flickered out, he continued to speak in soft tones, unwilling to move Maedhros as he dozed against his shoulder. This felt as it had when they were children, when they had loved one another without the fear of being rent apart. 

“I missed you,” Maedhros mumbled into his shoulder and the words felt like coming home. 

  
  


The house was restless even at this late hour. Maedhros’ family breathed life into the walls of this house and it was never silent. The twins in the next room had settled down finally but Celegorm talked in his sleep and Curufin refused to give up or share the largest of the rooms in these vast halls. His brother was haughty and Maedhros strained for peace. It was a losing battle between them. 

Maedhros turned over again, facing the wall and listened to Celegorm’s quiet laughter. He couldn’t make out the mumbled words, but sometimes it was amusing to listen to the nonsense. The scent of soured grapes suddenly filled the room and before he could turn over to see what had brought the smell in, a hand clasped his shoulder roughly. 

“Maitimo,” A familiar voice whispered and when he finally turned, he found himself looking up into his cousin’s flushed face. He had watched as Fingon cleared the table of wine during the festivities and then disappeared halfway through. Maedhros had suspected he’d finally found a maid he liked. 

“What are you doing here?” Maedhros whispered back and received a conspiratorial grin from his cousin. 

“Maglor snores.” 

“Well Celegorm talks in his sleep. You won’t find peace here, Findeka-” His arms were suddenly full of Fingon who had thrown himself haphazardly across him. 

“Are you trying to get into my bed, or smother me to death?”

“Perhaps both,” Fingon’s laughter, his wine-soaked breath was too close to his face and so Maedhros pushed him off so that he rolled to the side, still laughing.

“Quiet,” Maedhros hushed him in a harsh whisper. Fingon slapped a clumsy hand against his mouth and nodded, but Maedhros noted the crinkle in his eyes, the smile beneath his hand. He had never seen Fingon so undone and playful. His cousin was always so composed, a little king waiting for a throne he would never sit on. It seemed wine made him another being entirely.

“Your robes are saturated.” Maedhros couldn’t help but laugh as he looked over at Fingon. “You smell of a wine-cellar.”

“Do I?” Fingon asked with a scrunched nose, and then he was sitting up and ripping at the buttons of his outer robe. Maedhros sat up with him and stopped his hands, and with gentle care, he began to undo his buttons for him. He’d been in this position before, too drunk off wine to get home, much less disrobe properly. He was quite certain this was Fingon’s first time partaking in the tradition of overindulging during the festivities. Fingon sat complacently, his gray eyes liquid in the dark, watching patiently as Maedhros tackled the complicated hooks and buttons of his robe. 

“Is the room spinning?” Maedhros asked, chancing a grin. 

“Very much so.” 

It was then that Fingon leaned forward and placed a quick little kiss to Maedhros’ cheek. His fingers stilled on Fingon’s robe, half undone. 

“Pray tell,” Maedhros said slowly, gaze flitting up to meet Fingon’s. “What was that for?” He laughed, but Fingon’s face remained still. Shafts of moonlight crept across his soft face from the open window across the room. The curtains drifted in the light breeze, playing shadows over them both. Maedhros’ heart beat a nervous rhythm, fingers still caught in the silk fabric of Fingon’s court robe. Somehow the nature of a kiss was changed in the dark. 

“I want you to kiss me again,” Fingon whispered, hands slipping down to push Maedhros’ fingers away from his robe. Maedhros allowed it, his gaze drifting over Fingon’s face, his body refusing the offer. They could be playful with one another in the sunlight, a kiss on the cheek was nothing special in a place where anyone could see them, could discover their secret, but here alone, the danger was too close. 

“I ask for a true kiss.” 

Fingon made the decision for them both, and Maedhros’ face was between Fingon’s hands in a moment, and his mouth was caught up in a fevered kiss. He almost smiled through the juvenile fumbling. So Fingon hadn’t found a girl in the columns of his father’s halls. Perhaps he truly was more inclined towards Maedhros’ taste, or perhaps his taste was as singular as his own. 

He pushed forward despite the warning in his heart, hands slipping into Fingon’s silken braids and Maedhros gave him a sound kiss, slowing him, taming his desperation just a little. Fingon was better than any maid he had ever cornered, and there had been many. He was Fëanor’s son after all. 

Fingon melted into him, and as with all things, he followed Maedhros’ lead. Maedhros realized then that all his youthful yearning had been carnal in nature, and the desire to rip Fingon’s robe from his shoulders and leave blood blisters against his neck was overbearing. It became a raw pain inside of him as Fingon pushed him back onto the bed and covered him, his kisses turning rougher. 

Fingon stopped only long enough to tear the rest of the buttons from his outer robe himself and cast it aside, leaving him in only a thin tunic and riding leggings. Maedhros could feel everything where their hips pushed against one another, and he had to keep himself from groaning. But Fingon had no such qualms, he pulled his mouth away from Maedhros so that he could press his warm face against his neck to bury his small moans. 

Maedhros closed his eyes, teeth sinking into the skin of his cheek as Fingon pressed between his legs. The room was stifling in the summer warmth and the fire between them made the air even warmer. He was desperate to rid them both of clothes in this heat. Sweat began to bead against his temple as the tension rose and Fingon’s moans hitched the slightest bit. 

“Quiet,” Maedhros whispered, fingers twisting in Fingon’s braids.

  
Celegorm had fallen silent across the room, but his back remained turned to them, and he slept on to Maedhros’ knowledge. Fingon shook against him, warm breath trembling against the skin of his neck. The pleasure rushing through Maedhros’ body felt alive and threatening, and when hands began to tug at the strings of his night robe, desperately trying to disrobe him, he sighed in resignation. Fingon’s mouth had tasted of strong wine and summer fruit, and neither would satisfy him after this night. When he pushed Fingon’s hands away, he was met with accusation in those storm eyes. 

“You wanted me to come here.” 

“I didn’t ask you to,” Maedhros murmured, moving so that he was no longer trapped beneath the heat of Fingon’s body. His body strained towards Fingon, trembling as he pulled his own robes back into place. He was well versed in denying himself his darkest cravings. 

“You wished it so,” Fingon protested. “Your actions led me here.” Hands reached for him, but Maedhros turned his face away, his body still thrumming uncomfortably with desire. 

It was true that his actions were not of the most noble standards. He had led Fingon to believe that there could be more between them than what kin allowed. But he was young and foolish, no matter the years he claimed. His body wanted what his mind couldn’t comprehend yet. He was no better than Fingon for his perverted desires. He would not disgrace Fingolfin’s house any further than his own father had. 

“You’re drunk and you will remember this night much differently in the morning.” 

“I will not.” The words were acid against Maedhros’ skin and he didn’t open his eyes until he heard the door close with an affronted thud and when he opened them again, Celegorm was watching him from across the room, his cheek pillowed against his hand. 

  
  


It became a nightly ritual between them. After the screams had died down, Fingon would slip into Maedhros’ chambers, a new book in hand, and his cousin would pillow his head against Fingon’s shoulder until Maedhros fell into an easy sleep. Sometimes they wouldn’t speak, Fingon would merely read throughout the night, but other times, Maedhros yearned to talk. Fingon was the only one who would listen now.

“My dreams are rarely of Thangorodrim,” Maedhros’ soft voice penetrated the air, and Fingon immediately stopped reading, the book falling closed in his lap. This was different. This was a water they hadn’t dared to tread with the bloody history between them. When they spoke into the night, it was always the memories of their youth, stories that would make Maedhros laugh, or Fingon’s heart clench. They would always rather speak of the time before the shadow had fallen. 

“I dream of my brother’s faces, staring up at me, cold and dead. It is a premonition, I know it.” 

“Maitimo,” Fingon soothed, chancing a gesture he had made many a time when they were younger. He ran his fingers through the strands of his cousin’s red hair, sweat drenched with nightmares, and now rough to the touch. It was growing and now touching his shoulders, but it was a pale wisp of what it had been in his golden youth. 

He remembered watching Maedhros in the yard so many lazy afternoons, his sword ringing in the air, the sunlight turning his hair to fire. Fingon’s desire had been a fire of its own, consuming him from the inside until he had finally turned to ashes in Maedhros’ hand. He hadn’t spoken to Maedhros for an entire year after the night his desire was turned away. 

He understood now why Maedhros had denied him, but he had been young and in love. There would never be a time for his desire that wouldn’t bring scorn down upon them. Maedhros had known and had tried to save him from that. 

“How can you look at me as I am now?” 

“There was a time I quite liked looking at you,” Fingon said, his voice soft. He readjusted the cloth sling around Maedhros’ shoulder, where the ruin of his pride lay snug against his chest. “Nothing much has changed since that time.” That brought Maedhros’ head up, his amber eyes flitting over Fingon’s face curiously, searching for something that had surely been lost in the fires of Angband.

“And you remain as vain as ever,” Fingon laughed as a slow smile spread across Maedhros’ face. If he could pull a few more of those from him, there might be hope for the line of Fëanor. 

“We both have blood on our hands, Maitimo.” He meant it as a small comfort, but Maedhros’ eyes turned dark and he moved away from Fingon’s touch coldly. 

“My line is a house of blood,” Was the faint reply before Fingon was once again pushed from Maedhros’ warmth. Those words jogged a memory he had buried deep in his soul; Maedhros’ voice ringing out over the ice and smoke, thick with grief as he watched the death of a brother. Fingon had wept with him, separated by a field of death **.**

Maedhros laid down and turned from Fingon, pulling the sheets around his shoulders. Fingon put aside the book of stories and left the bed, but before he reached the door, he heard Maedhros’ voice again, muffled in the sheets,

“Always remembered what was done.” 

“I remember the flame that you were,” Fingon murmured, hand pressed to the door. “It would be wise of you to remember also. Grief will serve no one here.” 

It was during the spring tide that Fingon looked at Maedhros for the first time in a year. The snow had melted from the ground and the flowers were beginning to push through the soft fields of Valinor, and with that glance, Maedhros’ young heart began to beat again. 

Fingon had once more taken one too many drinks from the kitchen, and he was a mirror image of the night their passion had gotten away from them. His cheeks were flushed and he had woven a crown of yellow hyacinth into his hair. 

The message was clear and Maedhros took a flute of wine over to Fingon where he lingered alone in the courtyard. The sun was beginning to set, turning the light around them golden. He offered the flute of wine to Fingon, but his cousin turned his head, proud to the very last moment. Maedhros picked at one of the hyacinths, pulling a petal from the crown and twirling it so that it caught the dying light. 

“What is there to be jealous of?”

“You,” It was barely a whisper but Maedhros caught it and held it close. 

Maedhros wanted to slide his hand into the fall of Fingon’s hair and pull him closer. He wanted to taste the wine on his tongue and remember that old desire. His body strained towards him as it always had, and yet lingering drifters filtered through the columns of his father’s house and there were always eyes on him. Fingon’s mouth was tight, his gaze shifting restlessly over the courtyard. Words sat unspoken on his lips but he had said enough with his crown of golden hyacinths. 

“I am sorry,” Maedhros whispered. 

Didn’t Fingon know that every touch he stole, every glance that wasn’t Fingon’s pierced his ragged heart? He had tried desperately to bury his lust in the hearts of others, but each had been more hollow than the next. He led a life of torment beside Fingon, always so close to the object of his desire, and yet he would forever be too far away to love properly. 

He wanted to love him properly. It was his most desperate wish. 

“I am sorry your blood flows through my veins,” Fingon murmured, his tone hard and angry. His mouth tightened, nostrils flaring, and Maedhros saw the grief standing in his eyes when he finally turned to him. Had jealousy and yearning festered inside of him as it had in Maedhros? 

“I am so sorry for that, because I cannot help but love you,” Fingon whispered.

He took his crown of gold from his head and placed it into Maedhros’ hands. And it was as if Fingon had placed his heart there. The gesture spoke of everything Fingon could not say aloud. 

_You are my king._

“And it will always be so.” 

Someone had opened the windows of Maedhros’ room. Fingon had come to see the rooms as Maedhros’ and not his own during the months his cousin had lain like a corpse in his bed. The smell of sickness had gone and in its place was the scent of deep purple lilacs filling every empty vase in the room. Fingon stood leaning in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, surveying the curious changes, the most curious of all being Maedhros sitting propped up in bed with a quill in his hand. A long smile curved across Fingon’s face and he rapped his knuckles against the door. Maedhros’ gaze flickered up for only a second before going back to sweeping the parchment spread out across his lap. 

“I’ve heard you’re receiving letters from your sickbed.” 

“What you’ve heard is true.” Maedhros didn’t stop to look up, his hand busy with a quill. “And do not call it a sickbed. I’m quite alive and well, as you can see.” 

“That, I can see,” Fingon agreed, eyes caught on Maedhros as he circled the room and then came to stand near the bed. 

He couldn’t deny the excited beat of his heart, the rising hope he had tried to stifle as he watched Maedhros wasting away in his bed. There had been a time as he bathed his cousin’s pale, fevered face, the stench of his bandages assailing his senses, that he had prayed for his release as much as he’d prayed for his recovery. It pained Fingon now to remember those whispered curses on his lips. 

Fingon’s gaze lighted on a cask of wine and a platter of meats on the table beside the bed. When he tilted the cask, he found it half drained and his heart leapt in his throat. He silently thanked Mandos for turning his back on his cousin. It was plain to see that Maedhros would fight his way out of this sick room as he had fought his way through many a hopeless battle. 

“Sit down, Findekáno. You make me nervous when you hover.”

“You’re back to commanding me,” Fingon chuckled, obediently taking his seat at the window, his hands clasped against his knee. “Though it certainly is a hopeful sign of your returning vitality, we aren’t in the field, and I’m not a child anymore.” 

“You never complained of my command.” 

“Things are different now-”

“Are they very?” Maedhros finally looked up, quill poised above the parchment he’d been frantically writing on. 

_“I do not wish for things to be different between us,”_ He heard Maedhros’ strained voice in a hushed whisper against his ear as they held one another in the confines of Fingon’s bed. It had seemed a sin too great for Fëanor’s roof, and even then Maedhros had been afraid of his father. Maedhros had taken from him the one thing that no one else could, and Fingon had given it over willingly. From that moment, they had been chained at the heart for eternity. 

Fingon closed his eyes for a moment and willed the memory away, and with it the fetid turning of his stomach. 

“Do you know how long it took for me to learn to write with this hand?” Maedhros asked, eyebrow arching, his face warming with a handsome smile. He had always hated silence growing up in the chaotic household he had. Silence drove Maedhros mad. 

Why then had he chosen Fingon’s gentle countenance? 

“It took not even a day, knowing you,” Fingon answered softly, his own face warming, his heart slowing its elated fluttering to a steady tempo. “Your father always said you began to run before you walked. I always thought that was a story, but now I know better.” Maedhros looked away at the mention of his father and for a moment Fingon’s heart matched Maedhros’ own strong beat. He knew it by heart even if he couldn’t hear it now. He’d spent many a night with his ear pressed to the sound, listening to its frantic beating slow to a steadfast rhythm. 

Fingon’s gaze drifted over the naked expanse of Maedhros’ chest, the spidering white scars, a map of Maedhros’ tumultuous life. 

“You were right.” Maedhros’ voice brought Fingon’s eyes back up. “It’s time I remember.” 

“I didn’t mean for you to jump from your sickbe-” Maedhros’ gaze cut Fingon to the core, and he retraced his words quickly. “From your bed. Maitimo, these things can wait until you regain your strength-” Maedhros held up his hand for silence.

“You understand my nature.” 

He understood Maedhros better than he knew even himself and so Fingon’s words died on his lips. Fire was in Maedhros’ spirit as well as his hair. 

_“You’re a fire spirit,” Fingon whispered as they sat watching the dying campfire. All around them the dark forest was alive, and Maedhros’ hair was in Fingon’s hand. There was blood on Maedhros’ palms as he skinned their kill and when he looked at Fingon, the flames from the fire danced in his eyes._

_“What do you know of spirits?”_

“Will you braid it?” 

Fingon shook off the memory with a cold shudder to find Maedhros drawing his fingers through the wild mess of his hair. It had grown to his scarred collarbone and was wet from a recent bath. Maedhros only tilted his head in accent, eyebrow drawing up cynically, they both knew what he had meant. It was uncouth to keep it unbound during company and one hand was currently indisposed. Fingon poured himself a flute of wine from the side table and sat down beside Maedhros on the bed. His eyes glanced over the sheaf of parchment in Maedhros’ lap but his cousin brushed the letters aside before he could get a good look at them. 

Fingon had a few gold embellished rings from his own braids in his pocket and he picked up a comb from the sideboard to begin pulling it through the thick mess of fire on Maedhros’ head. His cousin tilted his head to the touch, face smooth even with the pulling. He had endured much worse on Thangorodrim. Fingon’s gaze traced the raised welts against his cousin’s back- lashes, hundreds of them, and his nostrils flared in hatred. He should have gone sooner. 

“You should have loosed the arrow into my heart,” Maedhros murmured as if trailing his thoughts. Fingon said nothing, his fingers molding small, fine braids at Maedhros’ temple and securing them with the bands of gold. Maedhros favored a series of braids to only one temple. It was a fierce hairstyle he had begun to wear once they’d left Valinor.

He had never before braided his cousin’s hair, it had always been Maedhros threading gold through Fingon’s many braids. Maedhros had been too proud to let Fingon do the same to him and he hadn’t realized how intimate a gesture it had been at the time. Only those closest to an elf ever touched their hair in such a way. It had always been a game of who prostrated themselves first between them, who bent a head or a knee, who caved and kissed the other first. A game of boys. Was it still that way? 

“This again?” Fingon finally spoke, hiding a smile as Maedhros' shoulders stiffened. 

“Do you grow tired of my whining?” Maedhros chanced a look over his shoulder and caught Fingon holding back his laughter. 

“In fact, I do. I much prefer your temper.” 

The movement was quick. Maedhros had always been faster than him. Fingon’s wrist was suddenly in Maedhros’ grasp and he dropped the hair he had been threading. Maedhros’ eyes were on him. 

“Do you now?” 

Fingon swallowed against a dry throat, fingers curling into his palm. He dared not look away or yield to him, that was their game and they continued it. Even now. Unconsciously he wet his lips and Maedhros’ eyes followed as they had a dozen times before. But this wasn’t before, this was now, and things were indeed very different. 

Maedhros dropped his wrist and turned, pushing his scarred shoulder back into Fingon’s hands. He let his palm drift for a moment over the scars and then he slowly began to braid again, his face burning. For a moment, he had wanted to feel the warmth of those scars beneath his lips, to know if he could pull pain from those horrid marks and save Maedhros his nightmares. 

Maedhros was still able to ignite a fire inside of him with a look, at least that much remained the same. 

“You have rivers of fire in your veins,” Fingon whispered, but Maedhros had gone back to writing his letters, ignoring the spark between them. 

Maedhros had picked her for the color of her hair, black as a starless sky. She kept it in one long braid down her back and with a little imagination, he could see her with a bit of gold twined into it. Her eyes were the wrong color, not the stormy gray they should have been, but she kept them closed as they touched. Her mouth was small and shy against him as Maedhros pressed her against the warm stone wall behind her. He’d caught her on a walk, and as they’d passed, he’d pulled her into an alcove. There was no protest, there never was with him. No one would see them here with the moon sinking behind the mountains and the nighttime gardens around them empty-

There was a faint clearing of a throat, and hands pushed at his shoulders. As soon as Maedhros turned his head, the girl slipped from his grasp and went running through the gardens, holding her slip of a dress at the torn shoulder, her head dipping in acquiescence like a small goose. He laughed at the awkward departure and then turned on his brother, an irritated smile frozen in place. 

“Yes?” 

“Is that the way you kiss our cousin dear brother?” 

He should have known that Celegorm would not keep quiet on what he had seen or perhaps heard. And yet he had hoped for some decency or that he had not known at all. He was a hunter and slept lightly and Maedhros was a blundering fool. 

“I have not sullied him,” He muttered as he left the columns with a quick stride, seeking refuge in the garden. Celegorm fell into step beside him, and he felt his brother’s anger like a strike to his face. 

“He is our kin, Maedhros, and barely past the age of-” 

“He is no child,” Maedhros growled, turning on his brother, his hand seeking the collar of his tunic without thinking and as when they were boys in a tussle, he pushed Celegorm against the garden wall with a rough hand. He would not swing on him, but his temper flared and Celegorm matched his anger, grabbing his wrists and pushing him away violently. 

“You keep him from his birthright.” 

“His birthright,” Maedhros looked away, to the darkened sky and laughed under his breath. His kin was obsessed with birthright and oaths and tradition. He would die if he heard another damn word on the accursed subject. 

“He has not even been on his first hunt, and you keep him tethered to you, running after you like a lovesick pup when he should be-”

“He is free to do as he wills. Do not patronize me,” Maedhros hissed, taking a step forward, his finger barely an inch from Celegorm’s flushed face. He was sure at any moment they would go tumbling to the ground, hands full of hair and grass, until one of them bruised the other’s face. It had always been Celegorm who had challenged Maedhros’ rule over their hoard in the old days. He was the only one of his brothers he had ever come to blows with. 

“Do you not know Fingon’s nature?” Fingon would rear against the hand that tried to curb him. Celegorm was sorely mistaken. 

And then softer, his anger turning to grief- “I have tried to warn him away. He will not listen.” 

“How did this come to be?” Celegorm asked, his tone softening as Maedhros’ anger cooled. Celegorm’s brow was creased with worry and there was a strange twisting to his mouth, as if he had tasted something foul. 

“You cannot let this be known.” 

“I would not, for fear of ridicule,” Celegorm laughed in disbelief. “Are you not afraid of the scorn that would be laid upon our house?” 

_Their house_ , it was the bane of his very existence. The message was clear, Fingolfin’s brood had always been _other_ beneath their father’s wrathful eye. It wasn’t merely that they were kin, it was that they were misplaced kin. Maedhros released an irritated breath and turned from Celegorm, his heart pounding fiercely in his throat. He was sick to his stomach and wanted nothing more than to be alone. He felt a hand on his shoulder and he shrugged it off, turning his face from Celegorm’s concern. 

“Send him back to his father’s halls," Celegorm said softly, his breath stirring the hair at Maedhros’ ear. “It is the only way.” 

The air was warm and the sun fell in golden shafts of light as Fingon watched Maedhros taking a turn through the secluded garden. His cousin had yet to venture out where he could be seen by judging eyes, but his mood was less sullen and Fingon could not keep the smile from his lips as he leaned against a balustrade. His smile was only shadowed when he noticed the slight limp in his cousins’ gait. He remembered the way Maedhros had been in their youth, his stride prideful, and the way he would break into a run at the most inopportune moments, especially when a reunion with Fingon was at hand. His face warmed at the memory of Maedhros grabbing him from his horse and toppling him to the ground.

Fingon had not appreciated the gesture after being banished to his father’s cold halls. Rarely had they been apart before then. 

_Sent away._ It sounded less harsh when it was worded in Maedhros’ gentle phrasing. 

_“I love you in a way that is unnatural.”_

_“But you love me.”_

_“Aye.”_

He would never forget that whispered utterance or the pleading in Maedhros’ gaze. It was something Fingon had held onto for centuries, long after they had ceased to walk the same path. Long after the wounds of their houses had stained the affection they had once nursed in the dark confines of Maedhros’ bed. 

“I’m tired of keeping this mutilation hidden beneath the folds of my robe,” Maedhros said as Fingon walked beside him, fingers drifting over the flowers his mother had planted with her own hands. She alone had made this garden flourish and she had held his hand as she led him around, teaching him the language of each flower. He in turn had taught Maedhros. He picked one of the primroses and twirled it beneath his nose as he looked after his cousin. 

“Then have the blacksmith work something into a pleasing form for you," Fingon said absently. He was the only one who would not tolerate Maedhros’ mourning at this point and they were both well aware of that. 

“Your vanity would thank you.” 

“It has nothing to do with vanity,” Maedhros growled, but when he looked over his shoulder, he was grinning. “And everything to do with mobility. It gets in the way.” 

“Ah,” Fingon murmured, hiding a knowing smile of his own. 

“Findekáno,” Maedhros suddenly turned on him and reached out, laying a fine-boned, war scarred hand on Fingon’s hair. His fingers slipped down his golden braids. “Even now, you keep these braids. I saw you shining gold on the battlefield and suddenly I knew why you wore them. I stayed only close enough to keep my eyes on your back.” Fingon’s brow creased and he moved away so that Maedhros’ hand slipped from his head.

“You still call it a battlefield,” He noted, turning his eyes away. Alqualondë had been a massacre, surely they both understood that. Maedhros’ gaze flitted away and their silence spoke for them as they drifted through the garden. The mere mention of that night brought the screams back, echoing across a darkened sea. It was the first time Fingon had seen his cousin’s face bathed in blood. 

“He used you against me,” Maedhros' voice broke the delicate silence in the most shattering way, and Fingon stopped walking suddenly, brow pinched, his breath caught in his throat. Without naming, he knew the creature his cousin spoke of, and it sent a shiver of revulsion down his spine. 

“We do not speak of Thangorodrim between us-”

“Maybe it is time,” Maedhros said softly. “My dreams have become darker and with them, my anger is heavier. I fear my rage will boil over and I will do something rash if it isn’t quelled.” 

“Will speaking of it soften the fury?” Fingon wondered aloud and a soft sigh was released from Maedhros’ lips. 

“I do not know. But I must speak of it to someone and you have always been the closest to my heart. You know my soul as well as you know your own.” 

It was the truth and yet Fingon felt his resolve crumble. He had not wanted to know the horrors of that mountain but he would suffer every word if it meant that Maedhros would sleep throughout the night. And yet it was a delicate subject, a secret that remained in their glances and touches. Speaking it aloud would make it real, and they had always been content to pretend as if they were still children playing at war. 

“I would have suffered a century of lashes, but he knew what my real torment was and he used that when he saw that I would not break otherwise.” 

Fingon turned the primrose in his fingers, watching the sunlight dance on its velvety lilac petals. “And did you break?” Fingon chanced softly, refusing to meet that deep amber gaze. He knew what he would see there, the torment he had caused his cousin. Perhaps it was a torment even greater than the fires of Angband. He felt fingers on his cheek, and he allowed Maedhros to tilt his face. His fingers were sword roughened as Fingon remembered them in times past. He knew the taste of them against his tongue. 

“I am a traitorous beast,” The words were softly spoken as if Maedhros were feeding him poetry in the garden instead of retelling the horrors of his captor. “-when it comes to you.” And then Maedhros’ hand slipped away, and in his gaze, Fingon saw everything he wished he had stayed blind to. He tasted the coppery tint of blood in his mouth and felt fire against his back until his stomach turned in sickness. 

“Greed and lust is in my blood. I am truly a son of Fëanor,” Maedhros murmured. 

“Nevertheless, you are still Nelyafinwë and remain beloved. We will not speak of this again.” Fingon dismissed those dark visions and instead he tucked the primrose into the neck of Maedhros’ tunic with a bitter smile. 

That would have to suffice in place of empty words. 

The air was tinged with the first sweetness of spring as it brushed Maedhros’ face. He urged his horse faster, seeking to catch up with Fingon whose hair had been loosed from its usual braids, and was now a dark river sweeping behind him. 

Maedhros felt a stirring he hadn’t felt since the last time Fingon had been with him, a visit too short. His chest burned with a deep fire, stoked by his cousin’s fierce nature. His fingers tightened in the mane of his horse and he drove his boot into its flank, his heart racing with the chase. He could hear the rushing of a waterfall as they entered a dense forest, flitting through the trees like wraiths. 

Fingon ended their playful dance by the base of a lagoon, a hidden spot at the bottom of the waterfall they had often played beside as children. Fingon dismounted with breathless laughter, his cheeks were flushed and his hair was wild and windblown about his face. Maedhros wanted to gather his hair in his hands and pull him close to make up for all the lost time between them, but he had placed a barrier down that he would not cross. He had made a promise to himself the day he had sent Fingon away. 

Fingon glanced back to him but only for a moment, and then he was off, shedding his outer robe as he made his way towards the lagoon. Maedhros let out a slow breath, face tilting back to watch the dappling of sunlight through the trees as the wind blew through them. He would not break. 

“Maitimo!” He heard his name called and then the distinctive splash as Fingon dove into the water. His clothes had been left in an amusing trail down to the waterline. Was it his path to be forever tempted with that which he could not have? The Valar surely took amusement from his suffering. 

Maedhros left his riding clothes on a rock and dove into the lagoon after Fingon. He let his body sink into the blue silence as he watched the muted world above him, body suspended weightless. Here there was no worry, no outside world that would condemn him for his actions or his desires. For a moment everything was as it should be, everything was perfect. And then Fingon was near him, a water nymph, his hair drifting around him like a dark cloud, and Maedhros twisted away from the playful hands that reached for him. They wrestled for a moment, their limbs twining, hands slipping, and then Fingon pushed himself away. Maedhros laughed as he pushed for the surface. It felt as if he’d let strip the long robe of time from his body and he was once again in the flower of his youth, pining after Fingon, playing at games and wishing it wasn’t all make-believe. 

When Maedhros broke the surface of the water, Fingon was gone, and so was his horse. 

He found his horse roaming in the wheat fields and finally Fingon, lying in the middle of the field, crushing the stalks beneath his half naked body. Maedhros settled himself down beside him, his heart bounding frantically from their chase, from the freedom Fingon had always afforded him. Never had anyone moved him the way Fingon had and when he was away, there was no sunlight on Maedhros’ path. Too often they were separated now by the trials of their fathers.

Fingon’s hair lay in a dark, wet coil in the long grass and Maedhros found himself staring, wanting to reach out and draw his fingers through the strands. It had been so long since he had seen Fingon’s hair unbound and without gold glinting like a halo about his head. It had been years since they’d touched. 

Fingon sighed, his eyelashes fluttering against his flushed cheeks and Maedhros’ gaze was pulled down the naked expanse of his torso, water rivulets sliding down Fingon’s stomach and pooling in his navel. He’d thrown his robe over his hips but it was clear their play in the water had woken an old desire. Maedhros mirrored the sigh and lay on his back, calming his own body with the drifting of the grass. They were hidden in the long stalks of autumn wheat, gold and dying all around them. No one would know. And yet Maedhros would, and his heart had turned away from that for Fingon’s sake. He would continue to love him from afar. 

“Must I do everything between us?” Fingon’s voice was soft and breathy next to his ear and he felt his hand being tugged to touch warm, wet skin. When he opened his eyes, Fingon’s storm-gray gaze was on him and his hand lay against Fingon’s thigh. He squeezed unconsciously, his body thrumming with lust. 

“I cannot,” Maedhros whispered, pulling his hand away. 

“You will not,” Fingon murmured. “Your honor is too important.” It was said with bitterness, but what Fingon didn’t know was that it wasn’t about honor. 

Fear kept him from Fingon’s bed, from the thighs he spread willingly, pulling the robe away so that Maedhros might see what he was turning away from. He was afraid that love would lead him blindly over some cliff he could not come back from. He’d had strange dreams of holding Fingon’s broken body, his face buried in black gold, weeping bloody tracks of tears on a charred battlefield. He would follow Fingon into Angband if he must and that sort of love would kill them both.

Fingon’s breath came in soft pants between his parted lips as he touched himself beneath Maedhros’ tortured gaze. Fingon had always been quietly headstrong and defiant, he would break Maedhros eventually. It was how it had always been between them. 

He reached out, sliding his thumb against Fingon’s bottom lip, bitten red with desire. It reminded Maedhros of Fingon’s wine stained mouth the night he had tumbled into Maedhros’ bed for the first time. Fingon’s tongue curled against his thumb, drawing it into his mouth and Maedhros’ breath matched Fingon’s. Teeth bit down as Fingon’s hand moved faster and Maedhros laid his head on an outstretched arm, his breath shuddering with Fingon’s jerking movements. It took everything in him not to cover Fingon’s body with his own and swallow down the soft moan that escaped his mouth. 

Fingon tilted his head back, breath hitching, and Maedhros refused to look, his fingers sliding from Fingon’s mouth and down his neck where his pulse beat wildly. He felt a warm wetness against his arm where it lay across Fingon’s shuddering stomach and when Fingon turned his head, Maedhros didn’t fight him. Fingon grabbed at his hair, his face, his neck, pulling him into a messy kiss and he let it happen. It had been so long since he’d tasted wine and fruit against Fingon’s tongue. Fingon’s eyes were glassy when he pulled away and he hadn’t noticed the salt trekking it’s way down Fingon’s cheek but he had tasted it, a subtle undertone he had thought nothing of. 

“Are you hurt?” Maedhros whispered, thumb stroking Fingon’s cheek, wiping away the salty treks and Fingon’s mouth lifted into a bitter smile. 

“You’ve resigned me to a lifetime of hurts. Everytime you turn me away, each touch you deny me, each moment I see you with someone else. And to pour salt in the wound, one day I will watch you marry. You’re a lifetime of torture.” 

Maedhros laid his head back down against his arm, thumb catching at the corner of Fingon’s trembling smile and he felt the sword thrust deepen, right below his ribcage.

Fingon had maimed him to save him. He reminded himself of that as he watched his cousin being fitted for a prosthetic. The injury had not lessened his beauty but Maedhros had always had fine hands, strong enough to wield a sword and yet delicate enough for lover’s games. 

The smith had wrought Maedhros a hand of metal but he’d infused in it every intricate detail of his cousin’s remaining hand. Fingon marveled at the delicate work. He felt Maedhros’ eyes on his face as he took the hand and turned it over, brushing his palm over the long fingers, the smooth nails that Maedhros had always kept clean and proper, the lifelines on his palm that seemed too short. The smith had even mapped out the veins and tendons of the wrist. It was exquisite. 

“Does Fingon, King of the Noldor approve?” 

“He does,” Fingon arched an eyebrow at the title Maedhros had placed upon his head prematurely. It was a title they had often laughed about beneath the sheets. Neither had ever had much use or want for a crown, but then that was when they had thought their fathers would live forever. 

“Though my opinion is of little use here. You wielded this for eyes fairer than mine no doubt.”

“Think not so hastily,” Maedhros said, turning away from Fingon and holding the hand up to let the sunlight glint off of the smooth metal. It had been shined so well Fingon could see his distorted reflection, looking over Maedhros’ shoulder with furrowed brow. 

“It is only a prop,” Maedhros murmured after a thorough inspection. “Beautiful as it is, only the Valar could restore what was taken from me.” 

The bitterness in Maedhros’ tone never failed to secretly wound Fingon, though he knew it wasn’t him that Maedhros blamed, at least not entirely. It was the beast that had set his dark wheel to turning, and perhaps Maedhros even blamed his father. Though he bore great love for Fëanor, he often talked ill of him but only in Fingon’s presence. With one another they could be open and blunt and Fingon knew Maedhros’ pain intimately. Maedhros’ father had laid a volley of torment on his eldest. 

“I think it is fine work,” Fingon murmured, taking the hand in his own again and turning Maedhros to him. “And you look better for it.” He dodged as Maedhros used the metal hand as a weapon to try striking him playfully. 

“I only meant, you’re smiling again,” Fingon laughed. “And that brings my heart more joy than you know.” Maedhros' smile faded at his words, and it was his turn to look on Fingon with furrowed brow. He suddenly hid the metal in his robes the way he had been doing with his bandaged injury for months now. He did not display it proudly, but shrank from it as he had shrunk from Fingon’s blade when he had done the deed.

“And yet the peace of our youth seems further and further away.”

“Then take peace in me,” Fingon’s words were soft and timid, as they always were when he was bearing his heart to Maedhros, but instead of ignoring his confessions as he usually would, Maedhros’ brows rose and his mouth tightened and Fingon found himself in the circle of Maedhros’ arms. He rested his chin against Maedhros’ shoulder, fingers curling into his back as he held onto him tightly. 

They were out in the open where anyone might wander by and see their desperate embrace but it had been so long since he’d had Maedhros in his arms that any care he might have had was lost. Fingon turned his head a little, his nose brushing the soft red river that now tumbled past Maedhros’ shoulders and he breathed him in; sunlight and dried primroses. 

Maedhros resembled his mother most of all, from the bright red strands of his hair to the freckles against his cheeks but his unchecked temper was all his father’s. He worked out that perhaps that was why Fingon called him Maitimo, the name his mother had placed upon him. And maybe it was because it had become as intimate a gesture between them as the kisses they stole in the dark. Only Fingon knew of the yearning of his heart, of the pain of his loss. Only Fingon had been able to soothe that pain. 

“Maitimo,” Fingon murmured, nose brushing his jaw, pushing into the high collar of Maedhros' robe so that his lips could entertain themselves there. 

His cousin liked to leave marks for him to struggle to cover. Fingon took his revenge in the most petty of ways for the decades of rejection he’d been dealt. But Maedhros couldn’t muster the strength to push him away any longer, now that Fingon’s hand had made its way into his robes. It had been a hard trek but Fingon had stubbornly hacked through any residual hesitancy of Maedhros’ with sword gleaming high. But nothing could bury Maedhros' guilt. No, that was something he must always deal with. It was his personal repentance and he would gladly bear it in order to tame the ache in his body. 

“You’re the only one that calls me that,”

“And it must stay that way,” Fingon murmured, tugging roughly at the collar of his robes until he heard the buttons rip. “I hate it when you wear them so high.” 

"I wear them so high to deter you,” Maedhros laughed breathlessly, fingers buried in the mess of Fingon’s hair. 

He’d already scattered the clasps of Fingon’s braids and they lay at their feet like golden offerings to the Valar. Maedhros imagined them so, silently begging their forgiveness as his cousin made roses of his neck. “Though it does little to help.” 

Fingon’s hand worked quickly between them, teeth biting into the skin of his neck, rushing the blood to the surface of every part of his body. Maedhros thumped his head against the stone wall behind him, eyes closing, his breath ragged. He could feel each ring on Fingon’s hand, warming as they slid against him. He could feel the blood rushing, could feel the frantic quickening of his heart as his fingers dug themselves into Fingon’s forearm, leaving marks of his own. 

“Fingon,” He whispered just as his cousin covered his mouth to quiet him. A muffled groan vibrated from him and he turned to liquid against Fingon’s chest and the wall. 

The encounter had been quick, and the parting quicker. Fingon cleaned the mess from his fingers with his tongue, and Maedhros shuddered at the lewd act, head rolling against the stone wall, his heart still working to beat its way out of his chest. Fingon rearranged his robes for him, quickly and efficiently as he did with all things and when he opened his eyes a second time, Maedhros found Fingon tightening the strap of his hunting bow across his chest. 

“Celegorm has a mind to show me the ways of his tracks.” 

Fingon’s gaze was playful as he looked up at Maedhros through the mess of his hair. Maedhros immediately bent to retrieve his fallen braid clasps. His brother would know what they had been up to and he pushed the gold pieces into Fingon’s hand with a pleading look. 

“Or do you think he means to lead me astray,” Fingon teased. “Take me into the woods and eliminate his brother’s one vice, his strongest distraction?” 

“Your mockery is unsettling,” Maedhros’ voice lowered as he curled Fingon’s fingers over the gold clasps and held them tightly. The smile slipped from Fingon’s face as he pulled his hand from Maedhros’ grasp. 

“It isn’t so hard to please you.” Fingon gave him a strange look. “Displeasing you is another matter.” 

“He knows of us, Fingon, and yet you treat that knowledge like a game. It would be in his interest to let slip our secret-”

“Our secret,” Fingon whispered, stepping forward so that he once again had Maedhros trapped against the wall and his chest. “I’ve never heard you say it aloud.” 

“My father would cut my head off himself.” 

Fingon brushed the stray strands of hair from Maedhros’ sweaty forehead with gentle fingers, soft gaze drifting over his face curiously. There was immense love in that gesture and Maedhros strained towards it. Not since his mother walked by his side had he felt such a touch. “He cherishes this head too little. You have great worth, Maitimo, more than all your brothers combined.” 

“You may be singular in your affection.” Maedhros’ face became serious and he held Fingon’s hand gentler. “Curufin is the jewel of my father’s eyes and though I held them all on my knee and wiped the tears from their faces as children, my brothers are in constant war with one another. One whisper from Celegorm and a fire would be started that even you wouldn’t be able to put out with your crafty words-” 

Fingon leaned forward and kissed him, bored of his dry muttering, his tepid warnings. Maedhros leaned into the kiss, hands slipping under Fingon’s hair to cradle the back of his neck, brow pinched. The kiss was gentle and sweet, begging of Maedhros’ forgiveness. It was easy to forgive Fingon his missteps; he had not grown up a son of Fëanor. He did not truly know his family’s twisted veins. 

“Always remember that here you have love and loyalty despite your sins,” Fingon whispered when he pulled away, his gaze turning hard, his hands framing Maedhros’ face as if Fingon were the elder, and imparting words of wisdom to him. 

But his words would never seem wise to Maedhros, not in the face of his father’s wrath. 

_“I hate being your secret.”_

Those old words Fingon had whispered in the heated dark once upon a time faded with the dream. He turned over in bed, the book he’d been holding falling to the floor with a loud clatter, but still Maedhros slept on. In the blue light of morning coming through the curtains, he could see the scattering of freckles hidden among his many scars, mapping their way across Maedhros’ naked shoulder bones. He remembered tracing them many a night as they talked in soft tones until the sun rose. So many dreams had been laid to waste between the silk sheets of Maedhros’ bed. 

He reached out and traced Valacirca against the back of Maedhros’ shoulder. He remembered that one most of all. 

_“It’s an omen of good luck,” Fingon laughed as Maedhros pressed his mouth to his lips in short playful kisses to quiet him. Maedhros’ hands were full of Fingon’s hair and they were young and in love, and blind to the dark premonition of his words. He had vanquished Maedhros’ resistance and his lover had stars on his skin. Darkness was a world away from them._

_“Do not speak to me of omens while naked in my bed,” Maedhros chuckled, kissing the tip of his nose, his ears, his temple, as if Fingon were something precious and sacred. “I am the worst of luck,_ _Findekáno_ _”_

Maedhros stirred at the touch and Fingon drew his hand away. Maedhros glanced over his shoulder, his hair mussed and his eyes lidded with sleep. His freckles weren’t limited to his back, they dusted themselves across his proud straight nose and his high cheekbones, they softened a face so like Fëanor’s so that Nerdanel shone through.

“You fell asleep,” Maedhros murmured, voice hoarse. He drew a hand over one eye and turned over onto his back and Fingon slid to make room for him. He noticed the slight tilt of his cousin’s mouth at the movement, but old habits ruled him now. They hadn’t shared this sort of closeness since before the long walk. An uncomfortable pain went through Fingon’s chest but he willed it away as he always did. Some things were meant to stay in the dark recesses of his memories. He had kept a promise and though it was a needle in his heart, he continued to honor it. He had chosen his path long ago.

“You still have constellations against your skin,” Fingon said softly and Maedhros' smile slipped, brow creasing, lips parting. His eyes were so clear and Fingon felt the needle pierce him deeper still. Was love always this painful?

The next moments were familiar and yet dizzying because they had been so long restrained. Years of torment lay like a battlefield between them, and yet it all fell away with Maedhros’ lips against him. Fingon kissed him back fiercely, his body shuddering at the sudden contact, his fingers trembling where they knotted themselves in a river of fire. A well of emotion rose and he fell into it with arms wide. Down into the darkness he went and he pulled Maedhros with him, his breath knocked from his lungs. 

“I love you,” Fingon whispered when he could catch his breath, eyes searching Maedhros’ face. “I have loved you better than the stars and I cannot look away any longer.” He kissed Maedhros again, to taste the salt on his lips and when he pulled away Maedhros shook his head, his eyes closing. 

“I will not,” Maedhros said firmly. He dipped his head, and Fingon saw that old guilt resurface as he tried to pull away, but Fingon kept his hands against his face and tilted it up. 

“Do not look down from me. You never have before,” Fingon murmured, thumb brushing against the stardust on Maedhros’ cheeks. “Looked away yes, you were always very good at that, but never down. We have never bowed and scraped to one another. That was never our way.” 

“I’m undeserving of this gentleness,” Maedhros said, swallowing thickly. His face pinched as if he had tasted something foul. “This love.” 

Maedhros turned his head when Fingon tried to bring his face back to him. It was the same song repeated, and Fingon’s brows knitted together, his hand stilled in mid-air. He had forgotten how much it pained him to be turned away. He had forgotten the pedestal he had placed Maedhros on. His knees were bruised from kneeling at the base of it for so long. 

He remembered well those nights when their bedroom had been a battlefield. 

“I am at your mercy,” Maedhros finally said, his voice breaking as he looked up at Fingon through mussed hair. There was a deep sadness, a shadow that lingered now in the brown depths of his eyes that hadn’t been there before. It struck Fingon even when Maedhros smiled, and now he understood its root and the sobering fact that not even he could pull that pain from Maedhros’ battered soul. Fingon had never been his enemy, even while separated by war. Maedhros was an enemy unto himself and he would torture himself over it for all time. 

“If only my arms could comfort you,” Fingon said aloud, reaching for Maedhros’ hand and bringing it to his chest where he could cup it there firmly. For once, Maedhros didn’t pull away, he let their bodies remember one another even as he closed his eyes. 

“I imagined your lips turning blue that awful night, the ice catching in your hair,” Maedhros whispered. His eyes moved behind closed lids as if he were seeing it all again. “I dreamed of your corpse for so many nights. I have stained these hands with blood time and again. You were right to take one from me. I have paid the price for my silence. I cannot be forgiven.”

“You refuse to be forgiven,” Fingon corrected him, bringing his hand to his lips and kissing the scarred knuckles reverently. There were very few places on his cousin’s body that weren’t marred by the beast. His face had been spared, but Maedhros’ vanity was a thing of the distant past. 

“Why do you think I came for you?” Fingon asked softly. “All is forgiven in love.” 

Maedhros leaned forward and pressed his cheek to Fingon’s chest and Fingon’s arms cradled his head and they stayed that way for a long while, stricken in one another’s arms. Fingon kissed the crown of Maedhros’ head and he knew then the extent of his love. He would die with a pin in his heart and Maedhros’ name on his lips. 

There was a great commotion in the square, Maedhros could hear his father’s upraised voice from the stables where he was readying to ride out from Tirion with Fingon. His hand stilled against his cousin’s horse, and he listened until the shouting became undeniable. He was often the only one that could temper his father’s anger when it was raised. 

He had to push his way through the throng of people that had created a half circle in the square and his heart leapt into his throat at the sight of Fëanor, shining in full war raiment. Maedhros himself had labored in the forge with his father to create his gold helm and the intricately detailed braces strapped to his forearms. They had crafted these under the promise of silence. His father asked much of him but rarely were his plans ever revealed in full until the last moment.

When he broke through the crowd, he realized it was Fingolfin who was the bearer of his father’s fury, and that in itself struck fear in Maedhros’ heart. His father held no love for Fingon’s blood, half-kin as he was, and their arguments would have frequently come to blows if not for Fingolfin’s calm countenance. Fingon had inherited his fierce pride from his father, but also a quiet calm in the face of opposition. 

Shame flooded Maedhros as his father’s naked sword pressed itself to Fingolfin’s unarmored chest, flint eyes burning with ill temper and an iron will. With that one gesture of unfamiliar violence, the square became hushed. The silence was heavy and only the wind blowing through Fingolfin’s court robes stirred. No one moved for fear Fëanor would make good on the promise of his sword. 

It mattered not what the disagreement was about, his father was inciting rebellion, trussed up as he was in his helm of gold, making an enemy of his own brother. Maedhros’ eyes flickered to a balcony above the square and fell on Fingon, leaning on the railing, his face twisted in pure horror. When their eyes found one another, a knowing passed between them as quietly as any kiss they had shared. Everything had changed in this one moment and the divide between them became a gulf. 

It was Fingolfin who put away his pride first. He looked at Fëanor very carefully, chin tilted, and then without a word, he made his graceful exit. The tip of Fëanor’s sword remained pointed at Fingolfin’s back, the threat lingering in the air. 

Maedhros rushed past his father, ignoring his indignant shout. He would disobey him in nothing but that which involved his beloved cousin. In that, his father would never rule him. He had no quarrel with his cousin, save for their great quarrel, the one they did not speak of. He found Fingon coming down the stairs from the balcony, nearly colliding, and he caught him up in the darkness of the stairwell, gathering him to him and taking his shuddering breath into his own mouth.

“He will leave,” Maedhros panted when they parted and Fingon nodded, his eyes wide and shining in the dim light. Even now, Valinor seemed a distant memory. Maedhros cradled his cousin’s face, his heart beating its way from his chest in terror. “We will be seperated.” 

“We will not,” Fingon pleaded. It wasn’t a question or a statement, but a desperate plea to Maedhros to defy his father, to somehow tame an age old hatred. “My father, he only questioned him, but loves his brother still. He will follow him as I follow you.” 

“By the tip of his sword?” Maedhros asked incredulously. He nearly laughed at his cousin’s uncharacteristic naivety. Fëanor had released a shadow that would spread and consume. The Valar would turn their faces away from his accursed line. His fingers gathered up the gold in Fingon’s hair and his hands trembled in fear and longing as if they understood that they would remain empty while away from Fingon. 

“I will beg him to follow, even if I must do it on bended knee,” Fingon whispered fiercely, and in that moment, Maedhros knew the true face of valour. It was a trait he could not place on his father, but Fingolfin and his son had it in abundance. Someone who could set aside pride to protect another, was someone Maedhros would lay his life down for most gladly. 

He gathered Fingon to him again and held him tightly, breathing in the scent of lilacs in desperate lungfuls. “I love you so,'' he whispered into Fingon’s hair. “You are more precious than any treasure my father could craft.”

He would remember those words as he watched flames lick at an icy grave.

A helm glinted gold in the sunlight where it had been set against the windowsill. Fingon touched the helm, his warped reflection staring back at him with downturned lips. It was Fëanor’s helm, taken from his fallen body by his eldest, and the sight of it sent a cold chill down his spine. Even as he wandered the halls of Mandos, it seemed Fëanor’s very spirit resided in the helm. An age old anger whispered to Fingon as he took his hand from the burning gold. 

_“A whelp unworthy of your friendship,” Fëanor growled as he helped Maedhros from the ground. His eyes were pinned to Fingon._

_“Father-” Maedhros protested but the hilt of his sword was shoved against his chest and he stumbled with the force. “You disarm your opponent with brute tact. Has Fingolfin taught you nothing of honor or skill in the hours you spend in the yard?”_

_Fingon regarded his uncle with a cold stare. He had learned indifference from his father. “Feign, even when your blood boils with fury.” He supposed his father had had to learn that tactictic quickly to survive beneath his elder brother’s quick temper. “One will always admire a calm countenance over impulsive anger.” He kept his father’s words firmly in his mind as his uncle looked at him in disgust._

_“Father-” Maedhros tried again, but was silenced by the quick movement of Fëanor’s hand. Fingon’s gaze shifted for a moment to Maedhros, peering at him over Fëanor’s shoulder. His cousin’s height already neared his father and he was barely out of his childhood. He towered over Fingon already. There was a pleading in his cousin’s face he was familiar with, as if to beg forgiveness for his father. Fingon felt fury override his pity for his cousin._

_“He taught me better than you it would seem,” the words came from his mouth unbidden, his anger was so great. “To honor my opponent and not think little of him for losing fairly and to give respect where it is due.” He threw his sword down at his feet and the ring of it bounded off the walls of the yard. Fëanor’s face remained frozen in disbelief at his outward insolence. It was a rare thing for someone to stand up to Fëanor, and to have his brother’s son do it must have been an unforgiving wound. With those words he had sealed his fate with Fëanor._

And yet he had always thought himself worthy, more than all, of Maedhros’ friendship. They were one in the same, and Fingon often imagined them as one single pillar, standing tall throughout each battle they were forced into. He had never confided in Maedhros about this, in whom he confided most everything to. 

He turned away from the bright gleam of Fëanor’s accursed helm and made to leave Maedhros’ empty rooms. He nearly overlooked the white chrysanthemum lying on his own pillow. Most nights he slept near Maedhros now, close enough to watch over him, and yet too far to touch just yet. He would not reach over their respective battleline until Maedhros waved his flag. His cousin had never been very good at surrendering. He picked the chrysanthemum from the pillow and saw again Maedhros in his mother’s garden when they were children, they held each of her hands as she led them through the blooms in a gentler time. Maedhros had grown tall without his own mother, who had shaped art of stone and clay with her hands as surely as Fingon’s mother had shaped her garden.

_“We can share my mother,” Fingon had whispered just to see Maedhros smile. It wasn’t long after that he too would be motherless. As sons they were destined to follow the path of their fathers and Fingon knew then the dimming of Maedhros’ smile. Only Maedhros made the pain bearable._

He found Maedhros in the hall, the familiar scent of horses wafting from his unbound hair. He had been out riding all morning and his boots were muddy up to the knee. He wore his new hand, polished and glinting in the shafts of sunlight coming through the tall columns around them. A strange pain went through Fingon’s heart at the sight of Maedhros smiling, his face flushed and dirty, the very picture of their youth together. Wasn’t this what he had wanted? He had pulled his cousin from the brink of death so that he wouldn’t have to mourn at his grave. But this brought back memories of a time when Maedhros had been young and flighty, always on the move with his father. Fingon could never keep him in one place. 

“What are you trying to tell me?” He said at once, pressing the white chrysanthemum to Maedhros’ chest and pushing a little so that Maedhros stumbled with the force. Maedhros’ open smile faltered and he took Fingon’s wrist in his own and pulled him behind the shelter of one of the columns. 

“You taught me well enough to know yourself,” Maedhros’ grin returned, fingers caressing his wrist as he pulled him closer. Fingon’s face was level with the sharp line of Maedhros’ jaw and he could see the nervous bounding of his pulse against his neck. He reached out and touched it gently, his teeth sinking into the inside of his own cheek. 

“You gave me this once before and it was years before I saw your face again.” Fingon looked accusingly up into his cousin’s face, searching for the truth beneath his pretty words. “Do not seek to placate me.” 

“I never have. You are no fool,” Maedhros muttered. “I only wished to lay my devotion down onto your pillow.” He said the last part softly and slowly as he looked down at Fingon and a sudden warmth spread through his body. 

When he had stopped running in their youth, Maedhros had been a fine hunter. At any chance, he could have Fingon kneeling for him in some dark corridor, his hands full of melting gold. There had been nights Fingon had spent in delirium beneath the whisper of Maedhros’ bedsheets. He had underestimated his cousin’s passion in the beginning but no more. And with that came the dangerous knowledge that it took little to lull Fingon into complacency. In fact, it took only a kiss. 

Maedhros leaned down and gathered up Fingon’s hair and with a familiar tug, Fingon was at his mercy. And so Maedhros pledged his loyalty and stepped over the front line for them both. Fingon grabbed Maedhros by the collar of his riding tunic and led him back to his room. The moment the door closed behind them, their bodies fell into familiar step. 

Maedhros made quick work of his heavy riding gear before tearing at the clasps of Fingon’s robe. Fingon’s heart pounded in his ears as Maedhros caught his face between his hands and kissed him roughly, his teeth breaking the skin of his bottom lip. Gone were the sweet moments they’d shared in their youth, hidden in some alcove of Fëanor’s house. Too many years had been spent holding back the darkness. 

_Let it in_ , a voice crooned in Fingon’s ear. _Let the darkness consume you._

“I worship you,” Maedhros growled against his mouth.

He fell back against the white sheets of Maedhros’ bed and Maedhros covered him, sliding his wrists above his head and pinning them there as they kissed. Blood pounded through his veins, and he knew there would be purple blooms around his wrists in the morning. He surged against Maedhros, catching his bottom lip between his teeth so that Maedhros hissed, fingers tightening. 

What did the wind know of devotion? It blew from east to west, from Hithlum to Himring, he could not taste it on his tongue beneath the copper of his own blood. He would crush Maedhros’ chrysanthemum against his palm if he could. How dare he speak of devotion. 

He grabbed the back of Maedhros’ neck and forced him off. There was a second of surprise in Maedhros’ flushed face and then he was beneath Fingon and it was Fingon’s fingers pressing bruises to his collarbone as he sat astride him.

He had always been content to let Maedhros lead him, but his anger ruled him then. He would not be set aside so easily. Theirs was a blood pact as surely as any accursed oath. Maedhros breathed harshly beneath him, his eyes wide and wondering. 

“Hate me if you must,” Maedhros finally spoke, reaching up, fingers drifting against his arm. “The Valar know I have done enough for your scorn.” 

“That would suit your self-pity well,” Fingon breathed, leaning down so that his lips hovered above Maedhros’ waiting mouth. He shook his head, grabbing Maedhros chin and tilting his head back against the bed. “I will not indulge you. When you come back to me, you will come to me on bent knee.” Let Maedhros punish himself that way if he must. It would be too easy to allow him to wallow in his sorrows. He would not let darkness into his heart as his cousin had. 

_And you cannot cure him of it_ , he reminded himself bitterly.

“I will come to you with a crown,” Maedhros promised, surging up to meet his mouth. Fingon’s brow furrowed as he kissed him deeply. 

Fingon ripped at Maedhros’ riding tunic, pushing it down over his shoulders impatiently so that his fingers could finally drift over his skin. He was so fair that his scars stood out vividly, constant reminders of what had been done to him. He would not ask himself why Maedhros’ face had been spared, Maedhros had told him enough. He would keep that knowledge where all dark things went to die in his mind. 

It had been so long since he’d felt the heat of Maedhros’ naked skin, even changed and marred as it was, he still found him beautiful. Maedhros’ eyes were on him as he leant back in his lap, fingers drifting over the raised lashes on his shoulders. 

“Does it frighten you?” Maedhros asked. Fingon shook his head and leaned forward to press his lips to the scars, mouth drifting from his shoulders to the side of his neck. He heard Maedhros sigh, tilting his head to his kisses. 

“It angers me,” Fingon whispered, mouth sliding over his jaw. He breathed in the scent of the fields from Maedhros’ hair, feeling a long buried lust surge through his body. In this position it was Maedhros who was forced to tilt his head back to look at him, and his gaze was heavy with desire.

“-that it took my heart so long to follow you,” 

“Fingon-” Maedhros tried to protest but Fingon’s thumb drifted over his bottom lip, quieting him. 

“And that you endured this pain because of my indecision.” Fingon’s breath shuddered out of him as he dragged his thumb to the corner of Maedhros’ mouth and then leaned down to kiss him, quieting them both. All that had been left unsaid between them, Fingon said with his hands, his mouth, the way he held Maedhros down beneath him and let him slide into his body. 

Maedhros’ brow knitted, head tilting back, his face awash with pleasure. Fingon took up Maedhros’ hand, the one that had been forged in a fire and kissed the cold knuckles so that Maedhros fixed his heated gaze on him. Fingon let the chilled fingers slip into his mouth as he moved against him, and he watched as Maedhros shuddered, chest and neck flushing red. 

_Red as your lips._

Fingon was slow and steady but Maedhros had fire inside of him and he laughed when he found himself on his back, and Maedhros above him. The movement was quick and there was a sharp clatter as Maedhros knocked over the goblet of wine on the side table. 

Wine spilled from the gold cup, spreading like blood across the sheets. Maedhros paid it no mind, his breath was in Fingon’s ear and Fingon drew his fingers sharply down Maedhros’ shifting back as their love became rougher, more desperate. He watched the red bleeding slowly through the sheets, until it reached his pillow and then he closed his eyes tightly, his heart beating wildly. 

“There is no other,” Maedhros whispered, and a sound like pain escaped Fingon’s mouth as his body was pushed to breaking. His fingers clawed their way over Maedhros’ scarred shoulders as the pleasure became piercing, and Maedhros’ hands pulled their way through Fingon’s hair, nicking the gold from the sweaty strands and leaving the ribbons scattered against his pillow. 

He felt teeth against the side of his neck and Maedhros trembled against him, whispering nonsense into his unbound hair. His own mouth had missed the taste of salt and sun against skin and he was a creature suddenly thirsting in the desert. He couldn’t stop the desperate kissing, the way his hands sought to mold what was already perfection in the flesh. 

“No other,” Fingon whispered back against the shell of Maedhros’ ear. 

The groaning of the ice was a fitting backdrop to the wailing of his heart. Maedhros’ eyes tracked his father as the torches were lit. One by one, Fëanor touched his own burning flame to each of his follower’s upheld torches. Maedhros had dropped his own torch in the sand and when his father came face to face with him, eyes flickering over him like dark chips of flint, Maedhros forced himself not to look away. 

“Pick up your torch, Maedhros.” In all things he had followed his father. 

_“Pick up your sword, Maedhros.”_

_“Fight them, Maedhros.”_

When he turned his shaking hands over, blood stained his palms. But in this he could not follow. Fingon’s face stood in his mind that last night they had stolen together. 

_“Do you think the Valar curse us?” Fingon whispered, his cheek pillowed against Maedhros’ naked shoulder. The tent around them shook in the bitter wind and Maedhros stared at the drifting shadows against the thin cloth. Outside, the camp shifted restlessly as if preparing for a great storm of a different sort._

_“I think our love for one another was the least of their concerns,” Maedhros whispered back. He could not afford to be delicate with the truth at this moment. They were truly damned now. He felt Fingon shift against his outstretched arm, and he knew Fingon’s face was pinched in worry and so he pulled him closer. “Why did we concern ourselves so when we lived beneath the light of the trees?”_

The boats creaked beneath the grinding of the ice and Maedhros hid his stained palms in the folds of his furs. He did not bend to retrieve his torch, and for the first time, he felt his father’s wrath turned towards him. 

_We must turn back._

_Turn back, turn back, I beg you._

_Blood on our hands._

Only one name touched his lips, and for the curse of Fingon’s parentage, Maedhros would fall from Fëanor’s grace. 

His father turned from him in disgust and threw the first torch. It began a volley of fire, and flames leapt to lick at the dark sky above them. Maedhros watched, unable to stop his own doom. His cousin would die because of his inaction, his complacency, and so he forced himself to watch all, a silent sentinel. He deserved to watch this massacre. His father’s gaze raked across Maedhros’ still face as he swept past him, the scent of acrid smoke filling his nostrils. 

Any tears he might have wept froze against his cheek. 

Death had finally come to claim his heart.

  
  


Fingon remained awake, long after Maedhros’ breathing had softened, his lashes fluttering, eyes moving beneath the lids. Even in sleep, his cousin was restless. He kept his grief locked behind closed doors, trapped in his own mind. Fingon reached out and brushed his knuckles down Maedhros’ cheek where only once had he seen salty tracks. The day Maedhros had left Valinor, leaving behind the one thing he had deemed precious, was the only time Fingon had seen his cousin weep openly. 

All promises fell away in the face of Maedhros’ family. Fëanor controlled him even now from beyond the grave. 

How Fingon had begged and pleaded with his own father that dark morning. Never in his life had he known such anguish and suffering. Reaching inside of his chest and tearing out his own heart would have been more tolerable than the thought of losing Maedhros forever. Banishment seemed too final. 

_Let the eyes of the Valar turn from me as well, let me follow you._

_I have always followed you._

He had watched Maedhros leave the gates of Tirion, the wailing of his heart drowning out all else.

He had gone down to his knees as he had said he would, and he’d even touched his forehead to the cold ground beneath his father’s boots. But all the tears in the world could not have moved Fingolfin. Fingon had understood why. Finwë had chosen, and Fingolfin’s heart had been broken by that choice. He would not follow someone who had disrespected him so. He had not had love on his side as Fingon. They had all become a band of motherless wretches, their chests left barren, and Fëanor was stealing away the last of their family. 

And now, Maedhros was leaving him again. 

“Maitimo,” He whispered, resting his cheek against the slow rhythm of Maedhros’ heart. He had always taken comfort in its steady beat when all else was chaos. That it still beat, was a comfort in itself. He felt a hand in his hair, stroking slowly. 

“You’re like a river, I can never keep you in one place.” 

“And like the river, I always return home.” 

“Home is not with me,” Fingon murmured. He was a child again, sour because his cousin paid him little attention. He was not Celegorm, eager for a hunt; he was too small to ride beside Maedhros, too dull to match wits. He had followed his cousin around until one day Maedhros had gotten tired of Fingon nipping at his heels and taught him swordplay. Once he’d shown his worth with steel, it was easier to catch Maedhros’ eye, but it became an obsession to keep that attention. 

_“Gold in your hair?” Maedhros laughed, tugging at the braids he’d woven so carefully. “I never knew you to be vain.” Fingon’s face warmed to the tease. It was easier to keep Maedhros’ eye when his hair glinted with gold. His cousin would always be able to find him this way. They would never be lost to one another._

“Findekáno,” Maedhros whispered, tilting his face up by the chin. “I leave you for the sake of my brothers.” His tone had taken on a chastising quality, and Fingon looked away, thoroughly rebuked. He would forever be that young boy, eager for his cousin’s approval. But he was also Maedhros’ lover, his beloved if his cousin was to be believed. They were bound in mind and flesh by choice and he would be silenced no longer. 

“They do not hold the love I bear for you,” Fingon protested, raising himself to his elbows, his dark eyes catching Maedhros and holding him. He had walked into that burning hell for Maedhros, and he had walked alone. Where had his brothers been when Maedhros had been trussed by his wrist on the side of a mountain and left to rot? Maedhros’ brow creased and he seemed to look at Fingon closer as if he did not know him.

“I love them all the same. I’ve lost one already. I will not lose another.” Maedhros’ tone became hardened and Fingon knew that he could harden his heart against him if he truly wanted to. He had done it each time he had left Fingon. He understood the delicate state the Fëanorians had been placed in, the bitter rising tensions that promised more spilt blood. He understood too well the fetid politics and yet his heart led him to argue when he knew no argument would sway his cousin from any course he had planned. Maedhros’ will was iron. 

“Were we not raised as brothers?” Fingon said. “We shared the same wetnurse.” He sounded petulant, young, but why should he not share the same liberties as Maedhros’ brothers? To have him at his beck and call, to be able to follow him wherever he went? 

This tranquil time with Maedhros had seemed too fragile, like a dream clinging to the last wisp of unconsciousness, soon to be forgotten. He had been left wondering when it would all fall away. 

_Too soon, too soon,_ his heart wailed. 

“I will write you-”

Fingon scoffed, turning his face away again when Maedhros made to cup his cheek. He was no weeping maiden, no lover scorned crying at his beloved’s feet. He would wash the dust stained road from Maedhros’ heels when he returned like the lore of old, and he could not escape that bitter truth. He would always be left kneeling at his lover’s feet. 

“Parchment in the place of skin. I will not suffer it.” 

“But you must suffer it,” Maedhros chuckled, dipping to kiss his cheek before he could turn away again. “You remain in my heart, first and foremost.” Maedhros cradled the side of his face, his nose brushing against his jawline slowly and then he felt a tug to his hair and he realized that Maedhros had pulled a gold ribbon from one of his braids. He watched as Maedhros wrapped the ribbon around his own wrist and then tied a knot in it. 

“I will give this back to you the next moon we meet,” Maedhros whispered, resting his forehead against Fingon’s.

Fingon shook his head, eyes closing tight. He clasped Maedhros’ sword-roughened hand between them and squeezed. For a moment he heard again his own voice rising in the air above the sound of his harp and then the faint answering call that had given him such hope when he thought all had been lost.

_He is alive._

_My heart still beats._

His breath shuddered from between his lips as he felt himself losing hold. 

Why did he smell the sting of ice on the air? 

They were all of them proud and beautiful. Fingon watched them from his window, his heart heavy with grief. To see them all together was a spectacle and they’d drawn curious eyes to them as they readied their horses in the courtyard. 

_“You will not tell me goodbye?”_

_“I will not lay my heart in your hands again. You’ve proven careless with it.”_

Feared and ridiculed as they were, if they were nothing else, the sons of Fëanor were beautiful, truly the jewels of the Ñoldor. Fingon laid his hand against the cold glass, his breath fogging the pane and he felt the shard in his heart dig deeper as Maedhros tread through the newly fallen snow towards his waiting brothers, a flame in the harsh winter bearing down on them. He left now in the dead of winter, another lash to his already scarred back.

He was still on Thangorodrim, bearing the brunt of his sins, and not even Fingon could pull him away. 

He watched as Maedhros pulled his youngest brother close, kissing the copper crown of his head so like his own. He then clasped both of Amras’ arms and looked down into a face devoid of hope. The boy was wane and pale, a ghost without his other half. One could not live properly as one half of a whole. 

“Ambarussa,” Maedhros’ lips formed the name, his brow pinched in worry.

Fingon had not even been there to hold Maedhros through the pain of losing his brother. Had he wept into his hands, inconsolable with grief? Fingon had been leading his people across a frozen wasteland , wondering what he had done to lose the love of his cousin. Surely someone who would leave him to die had buried his love in the frozen soil. 

He took his palm away from the chilled window, but before he turned away, Maedhros looked up. Fingon could not return the smile Maedhros sent him. Every goodbye he’d ever kept from Maedhros stood on his lips as he watched his cousin mount his horse in a flurry of velvet and wolf hide. A gold circlet twisted its way into the red river spilling over his shoulders, and beneath his arm was Fëanor’s helm. He was every inch a king without a crown, and Fingon had sworn allegiance to him in the confines of their bed that morning. 

He would follow Maedhros wherever he went, as he had done since childhood. In all things, Maedhros led him. There had never been any question where his allegiance lay, it remained where he’d left his heart. Fingon turned away from the window as Maedhros kicked the flank of his horse and the sound of him leaving echoed through the courtyard. 

That night he dreamed of Maedhros, facing him on a battlefield, his gold ribbon uncurling from his cousin’s scarred wrist and drifting away on the wind. Fingon watched it go, tossing and twisting over the blackened and charred land, over the pale bodies of Maedhros’ brothers, over his own dead face staring up through his grandfather’s crushed helm. The curse of Fëanor’s house lay at their feet, finally laid to rest, and when he turned back to Maedhros, his cousin was smiling, and his voice broke on the acrid wind,

“Welcome home, brother.” 


End file.
